


Open Arms

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Sleepy Cuddles, Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Norrell realizes how much he almost lost when Childermass was shot by Lady PoleChildermass comforts himCuddles ensue
Relationships: John Childermass/Gilbert Norrell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Open Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [More Than Service](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/703913) by Honourable Jester. 



> This fic is totally cathartic for me. I haven't been properly hugged in seven months. 
> 
> Also, I love the deep, complex intimacy of this ship. I just sometimes struggle to see it as sexual. I wanted to dip into the romantic aspects of this pairing. Prepare yourself for fluff and pining.

It was an ordinary night, like any other. A bit chilly perhaps with the approaching fall. Childermass and Norrell were settled comfortably in Norrell’s library in Hanover Square, each absorbed in a book. 

Drawlight and Lascelles, Norrell’s semi constant friends and advisors, who made bold declarations about Norrell’s writing, the state of English magic in general and the worthlessness of anyone beneath Norrell’s skill as a magician (which was everyone), had gone home at last, leaving the two men in peace and quiet. Norrell knew that his associates meant only the best for him, but at times, their sly insinuations, their gossip, their tutting over the state of Norrell’s carpets and upholstery grew tiring.

This was Mr. Norrell’s favorite time of day, the early evening, after dinner. The fire crackled and popped merrily in the hearth, the wind, whistling past the darkened windows, the candles at he and Childermass’ respective desks giving off a warm, golden light that bathed both of their faces in a honeyed glow. Oh to be alone with one’s faithful servant, reading a good book by the warmth of a cheerful fire. A cup of tea sat cooling by Norrell’s elbow. All was peaceful and right with the world. 

He glanced over at his companion, where the other man was similarly engaged, bent over his own book, lost in its pages. The past year or so, spent constantly at the beck and call of society dinners, balls and gatherings, not to mention meetings with Lord Liverpool and the Ministers had been taxing. He had at first resented Childermass for pushing him so, for forcing him out of his safe nest at Hurtfew and into the cold, cruel light of London society. But now, having achieved the title of one of the most powerful and respectable men in England, and in doing a good deal toward returning magic to its great and respected state, he could understand what Childermass had done for him, and he felt gratitude. More than gratitude really. 

He’d always been fond of his surly man of business. Childermass had been a reassuring presence in his life for so many years now that it was not until the aforementioned Lascelles and Drawlight had arrived, full of flattery and new ideas and insisting that he traipse all over town with them, that he’d been separated from Childermass for any significant amount of time. Childermass was not invited to such dinners and functions, being that he was only a servant, and one of low birth besides. This absence, this time apart, had caused an empty space to open up inside Norrell’s chest. A space that filled up with warmth when Childermass and he chanced to find some time alone together. Especially when both were in the company of a good book. 

When Childermass had thrown himself in front of a bullet for Norrell, that was when the space in Norrell’s heart had gone from a mere absence of happiness, to a full throb of anguish. The sight of his servant and companion, laid out on the pavement, blood pooling beneath him, face ashen and pale. It had knocked something loose inside Norrell, allowed a flurry of panic and grief to wrench him open inside, and the resulting softness and longing it left in its wake had been surprising and alarming to him. 

Sitting at Childermass’ bedside, Norrell had let himself look all he wanted. At Childermass’ pale skin, criss crossed with bandages. He looked at his raven hair that spilled across the pillow, at his regal nose and thick lashes that rested against the dark hollows under his closed eyes. 

Also, Norrell saw blood that seeped through bandage after bandage, and how Childermass grew white as a sheet. Ripped apart by worry, he’d sat, day after day, pausing only for brief meals and to sleep, slumped over, his head on his arms, and his arms folded upon Childermass’ bed. Eventually the bleeding had stopped and Childermass was restored to a normal sort of paleness. His breathing went from shallow and uneven, back to deep and regular. Norrell had wanted to reach out and touch him. To pick up a strand of that black hair and run it through his fingers, to place his hand over Childermass’ heart and feel its reassuring beat beneath his palm, but he dared not do so.

He realized all he’d almost lost, and it had chilled him to the core.

And now, months later, now that Childermass had healed. Now that he only winced a little with stiffness when the weather grew too cold or damp… Norrell was still left with that terror. That his friend (dare he say the word?) would leave him. Be taken by another bullet or a vengeful knife meant for Norrell’s own hide. Or by disease or accident. Or perhaps one day, Childermass might simply grow tired of serving him. He might tire of Norrell’s snapping and shouting, Norrell’s grasping envy and suspicious anger, and leave. The very thought made the fire’s warmth recede and the night winds claw more ravenously at the window. 

“What is the matter sir?” Childermass’ deep rumble woke him from his anguished ideations. “You look as if something is worrying you.”

Of course, Childermass could read the emotions on Norrell’s face as easily as he read the words on the pages of the book before him. “It is nothing Childermass,” Norrell replied, unable to hide the strain from his voice. “I was only worrying over something that made me frown. It is of no concern.”

“What was it sir?” Childermass had left off his reading and was looking over with dark eyes that shone in the flickering light of the fire. His face, unreadable to most who did not know him the way Norrell did, was tinged with worry. “Oftentimes worries disappear when given voice. Like the airing of a musty room.” 

Norrell hesitated before replying. He was unsure what would come of honesty, were he to tell Childermass the truth in his thoughts. But perhaps… perhaps being open would result in something new between them? He decided to be brave, which was not a thing he excelled at.

“I was thinking Childermass, that I never want you to leave me, that is...that I never want you to leave my service,” he said it in a rush, looking down at his book, fingers fidgeting with the corner of a page. 

“Is that all?” Childermass asked, his voice warm and deep. “That is nothing you need worry about sir. I do not plan on leaving.”

The fire felt warm again. The wind became a soft brush against the windowpane. “That is good to hear you say,” Norrell replied, and there must have been something in his voice, some tremor, some tone, because Childermass closed his book and stood and walked over to where Norrell was sitting. He came around Norrell’s desk and stood before his chair, looking down at him with fond, dark eyes. 

“You are upset,” he said. “I can hear it. I can see it in every fiber of you. You cannot hide such feelings from me sir, I know you too well. Now why don’t you tell me what is bothering you so that we may put it to rest.”

Again Norrell paused. He gazed up at Childermass, taking in the solid, warm sight of him. His ragged hair, his neat but oft mended clothing. Why had he not purchased a new waistcoat for the man in such a long time? Why was Childermass’ shirt so patched? 

“I think perhaps that I should buy you a new waistcoat,” he said, because it was easier to say than what he needed to.

Childermass’ eyebrows lifted in surprise and he smiled. “Now that is a thing I did not expect to hear,” he said. “You’re never one to spend money when you don’t have to sir, so why don’t you tell me plainly what it is that you want to say, though…” here he paused, and one eyebrow descended, while the other remained cocked. “If you must buy me a new waistcoat, I would be very glad to accept it.” 

Norrell felt suddenly cornered, having Childermass so close, looking so directly at him. He had nowhere now to hide, and lying would not work. Childermass knew him too well for that. 

“I… I,” he stammered, trying desperately to find words for what was welling up inside him. “I was only thinking that I did not ever want you to go.” He finished lamely, restating what he had already said.

“Yes, and I’ve told you I have no intention of going anywhere. What’s brought on this sudden bout of jitters?”

Norrell wrung his hands together and bit his lower lip. How to say what he wanted to say? _What_ exactly _did_ he want to say? “I have been feeling, how shall I put this? I have been feeling hollow of late,” Norrell began, halting and uncertain as he strove to string words together to express himself. It was so simple a thing to read them from a page, but speaking them had never been his strong suit. “And I noticed that when I am near you, the hollowness goes away. I was hollow precisely because you were not near me.” He looked up at Childermass, blinking rapidly, overwhelmed. 

Childermass leaned his hip against the edge of Norrell’s desk and folded his arms over his chest. “Are you trying to tell me Mr. Norrell sir, that you care for me?” He asked it so easily, so unguardedly, that for a moment, Norrell did not hear him. He stared up at Childermass, eyes wide, mouth agape. 

“I...yes,” he said in a small, scared voice. 

“There now sir, that was not too difficult was it?” Childermass gave him that one sided smile and his eyes grew warm and fond again. 

“It is only that… that…” Norrell was building to some sort of declaration, and his heart knew what it was, what he needed and wanted, but his brain and mouth were being frustratingly slow to respond. “It is only that you could have died you see,” he blurted out. “You could have died when Lady Pole shot you. And, and, the bullet, it was meant for me. But you could have died.” He seemed frustratingly unable to say anything more articulate than this. 

“Yes sir, but if I had died, the advancement of magic in England would have continued, whereas if you had died, that progress would have been cut in half. It was for the best outcome. Save you, save one of the only two practicing magician’s this country has known in three hundred years. If I were to die, you would only be short one servant.”

“Do not say that!” Norrell felt a sudden flash of anger. How dare Childermass be so casual about something so important? “Do not say it as if your death would mean nothing! It is not so. If you had died, why I would...I… I would have been quite alone.”

Childermass’ smile grew a little more in warmth. 

“And did you save me only because I am a magician?” Norrell asked. “Was that the whole of your reasoning for putting yourself in harm’s way for my sake?” 

“No, it was not. In truth, when I stepped between you and Lady Pole, the loss of a great magician of the age was not my only concern. I also thought of you as a man, as someone quite dear to me. I feared that you would be killed and did not relish the thought of the world going on without you.” 

Norrell stared up at Childermass stunned. He had not dared to hope that Childermass held such tender feelings in his heart. Not for a grouchy miser such as himself. A sometimes harsh and ungiving master. But he had risked his own life to protect Norrell’s, and his unique flame had almost been snuffed out by the shot from Lady Pole’s gun. 

And yet here was Childermass, whole and warm and living, in his patched shirt and old waistcoat, his familiar smile crawling up the side of his stubbled face. 

“I have been such a fool,” Norrell said. “I have been blinded by my own obsessions and I did not truly see you until you were almost snatched away… I…” He felt his resolve crumbling and his eyes grew blurry with unshed tears. “Dear Lord, Childermass...I am so sorry. I...you could have…” 

Childermass, rather than reassure him, levered himself away from the desk and went to the door to Norrell’s study, which he locked. He then went to one of the overstuffed armchairs Drawlight had insisted Norrell purchase, and picked up a brocade pillow. Norrell watched him, eyes swimming and heart reeling, twisting his hands together in his lap, unsure of what his servant was doing. He was glad that Childermass had not simply walked out. That he wanted to remain in the room with Norrell, who had just stammered out a mortifying confession of sorts, and who now sat, coming apart at the seams behind his desk. 

Childermass returned with the pillow and placed it on the floor at Norrell’s feet. Norrell did not have time to ask what it was for, because Childermass then got down on his knees in front of Norrell, placing his hands on the arms of Norrell’s chair. He sat back on his heels, and this brought him more or less face to face with his master. “What is it you want sir?” Childermass asked, keeping his voice soft and gentle. “Whatever it is, I am certain it will be amenable to me, for I think that you and I are cut from a similar cloth.”

What _did_ Norrell want? His mind raced as he looked at the man kneeling before him, at Childermass’ earnest, patient expression, his ragged hair framing his face, his dark eyes kind and open. He looked again at Childermass’ hair and wondered if it was as soft to the touch as it appeared. “I. I think I should like to touch you,” he said. Surprised at his own boldness, he flinched, readying himself for anger or rejection. “Not in any intrusive way...just… to touch your hair perhaps?” he said.

“I would also like that,” Childermass replied. “You may touch me as you wish.” Norrell was grateful that there was no laughter hidden in his tone. Only calmness and warmth. 

Norrell reached out a trembling hand and very carefully grasped a lock of Childermass’ raven hair between his thumb and forefinger. It was indeed quite soft. When his servant did not pull away, he grew braver and slid the fingers of his hand into the tangle of dark, messy ripples that framed Childermass’ face, and felt the heat and roughness of the man’s cheek against his palm.

Childermass’ eyes slid closed and he leaned into the touch. Norrell gasped and pulled his hand back.

“Was that not pleasing to you sir?” Childermass asked, looking a little worried.

“It was… It was very pleasing.” Norrell replied haltingly. “Only new. And it scared me.” 

“Yes. I understand,” Childermass nodded. 

“May I try again?” Norrell asked. 

“Of course.” 

This time Norrell scooted forward in his chair, getting closer to his kneeling servant, his knees almost framing Childermass’ chest. He reached out and gently brushed Childermass’ fall of dark hair away from his face with careful fingers. For how ragged and messy it looked, it felt silky soft beneath his fingertips. This time, when he withdrew his hand, it was because his action of touching was completed, and not because he’d snatched it back from fear.

Childermass smiled at him. 

“That was very nice sir.”

Norrell felt the need to explain. “I want you to know, this is nothing to do with the fires of the flesh Childermass. I do not feel such things for you, nor for anyone. It is only to do with the softness in my heart for you. This urge to touch. I do not wish you to assume that-”

“It is alright sir,” Childermass placed a warm hand on Norrell’s knee, which effectively silenced him. “I feel the same. I do not wish to undress you, nor to press any sort of advantage. Just know that any touch you feel you need to give to me, I will accept it, happily.” 

“Oh,” Norrell breathed. He was momentarily overwhelmed with being known so easily, with having his feelings, which he’d always thought made him different from everyone else around him, be so completely understood and returned. It was a thing that took his breath away. 

Childermass’ hand on his knee was a pleasant, warm weight. He placed his own hand over it and stroked Childermass’ knuckles gently with this thumb. Childermass carefully rolled his hand over, palm up and interlaced his fingers with Norrell’s. For a long, heart pounding moment, Norrell simply held Childermass’ hand and let himself grow accustomed to the contact. 

Before he knew it, his tears were back, blurring his vision, and a sob escaped him before he could stop it. 

“There now sir. It is alright. I am here. I will always be here.” Childermass pulled Norrell forward gently and into his arms. Norrell froze for a brief moment before throwing his arms around Childermass’ neck. He buried his face against the man’s shoulder and sobbed. Great, heaving sobs burst out of him as he clung to Childermass. He could feel Childermass’ arms tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, inching closer on his knees so that he could embrace Norrell more fully. For a long time, Norrell cried. He had much to cry over. His fear and worry and anguish, all coming out of him in a great rush. Childermass held him through all of it, stroking his back with a warm hand, being his usual solid self. 

Eventually, Norrell pulled back, sniffling. He disengaged from Childermass and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, which he used to wipe at his face. “I am sorry Childermass,” he said. “I had not realized how very much I needed… well, how much I-”

“No need to apologize sir. It is understood.” 

When Norrell was done drying his eyes and had very loudly blown his nose, Childermass stood. “I think you should go to bed now sir. Would I be able to accompany you? To see that you are comfortable, perhaps to hold you a little more, if that is what you would like?”

“Y-yes, I would like that very much,” Norrell admitted, getting unsteadily to his feet. Childermass took his hand and led him to his bedroom. Once there, he assisted Norrell out of his clothes and into his nightdress. Childermass removed his jacket and his shoes and crawled with Norrell under the covers where Norrell curled onto his side. Childermass curled himself around Norrell and wrapped him up tight in his arms. “Is this alright sir?” he asked, and Norrell, speechless from the warmth and comfort and drowsiness he was feeling, nodded mutely. 

“Good,” Childermass said in response and squeezed Norrell a little more tightly in his embrace. Soon, the closeness, Childermass’ reassuring smell of ink and hay from the stables and pipe smoke and the warmth from his body lulled Norrell into a deep and peaceful sleep. 

When he woke, it was to the sound of birdsong outside his bedroom window. He felt well rested in a way he had not since leaving Hurtfew Abbey. As if his cares and troubles had floated away in the night. He turned over, reaching groggily for Childermass and found that he was gone, probably having slipped away sometime after Norrell had fallen asleep.

He dressed quickly and clumsily, realizing that it was already half past ten in the morning and that he’d slept in frightfully late. 

Rushing down the stairs to his study he was ashamed to find Lascelles and Drawlight already present, arguing about some rumor or other they’d heard around town and taking their morning tea. Childermass was at his desk as usual. When Norrell entered the study, he looked up and a ghost of a smile played about his lips. 

“There you are Mr. Norrell!” exclaimed Drawlight in a loud voice that made Norrell flinch. “We thought you had taken ill! Though Childermass reassured us you were only tired out from a long night of study and contemplation.”

“Yes, good morning,” Norrell replied, walking stiffly to his desk. Lascelles rose from his chair and approached immediately, wanting Norrell to attend to some change to this month’s issue of The Friends Of English Magic he wanted Norrell’s opinion on. Norrell sighed, knowing that last night’s warm intimacy with Childermass was over and that the day had best be started. 

He looked over at his servant, his companion and found Childermass looking back at him, his coal dark eyes soft and fond, and a small, secret smile upon his face. 


End file.
